She Wore Her Jeans
by Some-H
Summary: "I regret to inform you this, Ms. Dare, but we do not allow marker stained clothing in our academy." Taking away her drawn on jeans was like taking away her identity. But with practice, Rachel uses her Oracle powers to her advantage. dramatic!Rachel


Sometimes, Rachel Elizabeth Dare wished that she let Percy be attacked by his own fate. If she did, she would not be standing in front of her new home, staring at the old-fashioned rock buildings with disgust.

Her father decided to accompany her on the trip to the school. Nothing could annoy her more—probably wanted to be there, making sure she doesn't do anything that could 'threaten her chances at a new life.'

They stood on the sidewalk, studying the architecture of her new boarding school. It was, she had to admit, quite pretty. The scene was flourished with flowers of bright colors and with a field of endless trees and greenery.

"Upgrade from Goode, isn't it?" Her father said, glancing at his daughter. She just growled unnaturally at the back of her throat.

Around them were girls dressed up like porcelain dolls. Pretty, delicate, and a strange look on their faces. Parents nicely dressed as father wore suits and mothers wore dresses. Girls wearing long, summer dresses with their hair curled perfectly. Some even wore wide-brimmed summer hats—and Rachel just stood there dumbfounded. What year did these people live in?

Not that she felt like an outcast with her drawn on jeans and over-sized t-shirt. No, Rachel Dare was _known _for her jeans. When you thought of messed up piece of clothing with colors and rips—you thought of Rachel. When you thought of Rachel—you thought of messed up piece of clothing with colors and rips.

They were perfect for Rachel's forever skinny frame. Long and reaching her ankles, the color was a faded sky blue. White patches dotted the fabric, making it look like cloud in the wide, endless sky.

Rips and holes were in the best spots as well. They weren't fake as the ones you'd buy at a Gap store, the ones purposely ripped. These were rips that Rachel earned over the years— and like a warrior proudly displaying his battle wounds, Rachel was proud of her tears. There was a story behind each one.

There was one over her right knee, when she forgot her gym shorts, and still played in the soccer tournament. As the goalie, Rachel slid across the fresh green grass, her knee painfully pressing against the dirt and rocks. She didn't save the goal, but still had a pretty good gash on her knee and a hole the size of her fist.

One was jagged around the ends; its strings always tickled her toes. When she was running late for school, Rachel was in a hurry to untangle her bike. The chains were looped together and caught around her legs. At the end, finally free from the deadly clutches of the chains, her green eyes widen at the sound of the thin fabric tearing apart.

One was below her thigh, when she played her first game of Capture the Flag at camp. A player from the red team advanced on her, and defenseless and a bit hyperactive (she blamed all of the Coke that the Hermes cabin decided to give her) Rachel attack him.

Wrapping her legs around his waist and continuously banging his head against the tree, Rachel nearly drove him into unconsciousness. The half-blood lifted her like a rag-doll, being at least a foot taller that her, and set her down. His chuckles made her blood boil, and he was stupid for not knowing how dangerous Rachel's anger could be. The poor demigod need to swing his weapon a bit to calm her down, but the blade met her thigh.

"Hey, first battle wound." Mumbled Percy, after apologizing for ten minutes straight.

But rips weren't the only part she loved about her jeans. They had little doodles that Rachel sketched up when she was bored in class. They had museum-worthy art pieces of monsters, battles, and even everyday normal stuff. They held memories, those jeans, and Rachel would never give them away.

Even if a certain strict boarding school that she happened to be forced to attend has disciplined dress code, and apparently scary things occur when you break the holy dress code.

"I regret to inform you this, Ms. Dare, but we do not allow marker stained clothing in our academy."

Suddenly the temperature in the principal's office dropped a couple of degrees. Rachel froze.

Her father, on the other hand, seemed quite please. For him, it was one step closer to his rebel and untamable daughter becoming a young lady.

"What," she whispered her voice cold and deadly. For some odd reason, Mr. Howard Williams, headmaster of the infamous Clarion Ladies Academy, felt strangely alarmed by this girl. Shivers ran up and down his spine. "Do you mean I am not allowed to wear _marker stained clothing?"_

"My dear," Williams said, lacing his hands together. He leaned forward from his chair, setting his bony elbows on top of the wooden table. His face was uncomfortably near hers; she could smell his strong cologne and mint breath. Howard Williams was not a handsome man; he had thinning brown hair that tried hard to cover his bald spots. He had droopy, sad blue eyes that almost looked at everyone pleadingly. Rachel would feel sorry for him—the man looked miserable. "Please do your best to understand our policy. Half of our reputation _relies _on our dress code. Girls, teenagers, these days do not dress appropriately in school property and in school halls."

"Is that so?" she said, raising a crimson eyebrow. She leaned back in her own chair, and crossed her arms. An amused expression was painted on her face. "Please, explain."

Mr. Dare sighed.

The man's puffy cheeks turned red. "Mini skirts, tang tops," he managed, as if the words were like poison in his mouth. Rachel suppressed a laugh. "They show too much… _skin _now these days. Some public schools go to drastic measures to keep their students from exposing." Eh, that sounded just plain wrong; Rachel winced. "Have you not felt the temperature in your buildings? Freezing cold, sharp weather makes a sharp mind, they say. No, my dear, they are keeping it cold so students would dress appropriately."

It made some sense; Rachel would give the deprived man that. She did have to wear a sweater to school during one particularly warm, humid summer day. It was weird to be carrying it around outside, but it felt so necessary when she entered the classrooms. It felt like another Ice Age.

"So, where do my, as you say it, marker stained jeans come in?" snapped the Oracle. This was beyond ridiculous. "Nothing wrong with them—they don't even fall into the category of skirts! They are _jeans, _for the gods' sake!" Rachel made a gasping sound after her sentence, silently cursing herself for being so careless.

Her father paused, just about to lift his coffee cup to his lips, slowly turned his head to give his daughter a strange look.

That split second, Rachel thought she'd just exposed the truth about modern-day life, source of life, and the nature of Earth. Her muscles tensed, and she refused to show any sign on her face that she made a grave error. But the principal did not seem to notice.

"We do not support jeans, especially yours. They are not properly hemmed." He said plainly. He sat back, and resumed to stroking the armrest of his chair. He stroked it in a way that the bottom of his fingers first touched the leather, and gradually moved to the tip of his fingernails. It was sinister; something you would expect the cliché villain to pet his evil ferret.

"You mean the rips? I mean, it's not _showing _anything," she said, feeling heat on her face. She tried hard to swallow it down. "Unless, you count my knee offensive."

"Rachel, please, you must accept that your… _clothing _is just not acceptable in this school." Rachel's father said, glancing at his nails.

"Academy, sir." Coughed the principal.

Mr. Dare sighed, once more. Even he had been present during one of his daughter's arguments. No, he never fought for her, just stood at the back and watched her shout. These useless fights were a waste of time—but his daughter must go on and on. She must always have the last word. Maybe, just maybe, a small part of him was proud of his persuasive and strong daughter. It was probably the only characteristic that she had that he also owned. It was obvious that she would carry out the family business well and with care.

"I am sorry, but this is an academy for behaved _young ladies, _not rowdy teenage girls…"

And as much as he disapproved of her little fights, no one should ever _dare_ insult his daughter in front of him. Walter Dare shot straight up, towering over the little man.

"And, are you implying that my daughter is a 'rowdy teenage girl'?" He said, keeping his cool, but still looked frightening. This was probably how he terrified his fellow workers.

"Sir, I am sorry that came out the wrong way. But your daughter obviously is shown to be little on the…" His voice trailed off, and he shrank further in his precious chair. He could easily see the resemblance in the father and daughter, and not just looks. Yes, they both had red hair. The man's hair had a darker hue, like rust on metal, neatly made and divided nicely on his head. The girl had bright red hair, shining like flames. Both had light freckles, dancing on their pale skin and direct, piercing green eyes. But what the principal saw was their strong arguments and will. The girl was going to be trouble in Clarion, Williams had no doubt.

"My daughter," continued Mr. Dare, scowling. "Is a qualified artist, a devoted humanitarian, with a steady attitude. I have no doubt that she would succeed in this pathetic excuse for an _academy _and in life."

"I—um…well…you see, I…just." Williams stammered, not sure what to say about this sudden outburst.

Rachel seemed pretty speechless too. Since when has her father paid any attention at all to her?

"But I will have to see it that Rachel will, eh, _retire _from her usual clothing."

That _pastartos._

The Dares walked outside, back in the day light. It felt good to be out of the small, cramped office, but Rachel was in point of blowing up. She stared at her father with such anger, that it would not surprise anyone if she managed to make his head explode.

"Thank you, Mr. Williams. Good luck with your coming school year." Walter Dare said, shaking hands with the tiny man. One second ago, he was screaming and shouting, and next they were besties.

Sickening.

"Yes, sir," Williams said quickly. He nodded at everything Mr. Dare said, afraid to be back on his bad side. "Ms. Dare, I will meet you after you said your goodbyes."

With that, he nearly ran away. It was like he feared for his life…

Fear for his life…

That gave Rachel a very daring idea.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her father, who stood straight in front of her. He paused, not saying anything to her, face was a bit white. Rachel looked at him calmly, but felt extremely uncomfortable. Her green eyes studied the man before her, and strangely, she did not regard him as her father.

By accident, she glanced to the corner, watching other girls hug and kiss their parents good-bye. One girl practically jumped on her father, hugging his thin neck. Rachel felt… jealous? She wasn't sure, but it didn't make her feel any better.

Suddenly, she felt two arms wrapped around her body tightly. Her face pressed hard against a chest; the aroma of men's perfume entered her nose. A face was buried in her curly red hair. A hand gently rubbed her cheek, maybe even a bit lovingly. The embrace felt cold and unfamiliar to her, but the other person would not let go. Then the person unlocked their arms, and Rachel almost collapsed at the sight of her father staring at her. Her father just… _hugged her? _Even he seemed a bit surprised.

Rachel did not get good-bye hugs often, and certainly not from her own father.

"Erm, good bye Rachel… be good." She watched him walk off, his body stiff. She shook her head to herself and turned around, glancing at the sight of her boarding school.

She walked towards Williams, and he instructed her to get her uniform, and get ready for her own dorm.

But she did not hear the quite mumbling of the man, but was forming a devious, downright risky plan of her own. It would just take some practice and unbearable concentration. And if it worked, she could be allowed to wear her beloved jeans.

* * *

The dress was so uncomfortable.

It was stiff around her waist, laces pressing hard against her skin. Every second, Rachel needed to adjust a strap, scratch something, or fidget in a better position. The dress, white and long and circled around her ankles. A white bow wrapped her red hair, no long frizzy but now silky, into a neat ponytail.

Her uniform was better than this. At least that was a gray skirt, gray legging, with a white shirt and a school girl tie. It reminded her of students' uniform at something like Hogwarts (But of course, that is just fiction…).

These pointless assemblies, why do they need to dress up so much? Urg! Rachel wanted to strip off and just put on some sweats and sleep. What she wore never bothered her so much.

"So how's dress up school?"

Rachel, back in the privacy of her own dorm, scowled. She had been doing it a lot lately—could not be normal.

She could hear Percy Jackson's stifled laughs miles away. Rachel snatched the phone off the speaker and pressed it against her ear. She could hear him munching on homemade tortilla chips. Her stomach growled. She really missed Ms. Jackson's odd, but delicious and strangely colored meals.

"Horrible. They won't even let me wear my jeans!"

"Awww, poor Rwachel doesn't get to wear her jweans." Came the response; the voice dripping with sarcasm. "Seriously though, what's the big deal? We had a major dress code in Goode! I mean, I got five detentions because I was not wearing a polo shirt."

"Percy, I doubt five detentions made any difference to you."

A scowl came from the other line. Rachel smirked.

"They just… mean a lot to me. I had them ever since I was in eighth grade! I would go on, but your incapable brain could not hold it all. I bet Williams wants me to throw them out." A disbelieving snort. Anyways, the uniforms are ugly—gray! I mean, seriously?"

"Gray is a pretty color," mumbled Percy, so quietly Rachel barely noticed. His tone change drastically.

"Oh, I am sorry, lover boy," Rachel giggled un-Rachel-like. She immediately smacked herself on the head, punishing herself for making sudden cringe-worthy sound. "Didn't know you were so devoted to your girlfriend."

"Sorry you have to go through this school crap," Percy said his voice serious and understanding, but also trying hard to get off the previous subject. She could bet his face would look the same; a small frown on his face and his dark eye brows knitted close together.

"It's okay, hero. Either be in a world where I have to go to a socialite boarding school or be in a world destroyed by deadly Titans."

"I choose the first option!" Percy said, switching to a childishly cheerful voice. He sounded very much like a Simpsons character.

Then Percy continued to talk about something else, but Rachel wasn't exactly paying attention. She was busy practicing something she has been doing ever since she had arrived at Clarion's, which was about three months ago. It was hard, and required a lot of energy, concentration, patience, and, of course, practice. Day and night, during her breaks and meal times, Rachel spent all the time working hard to use her… gift. She was beginning to think it might finally work—after all of that time.

"Anyways, I got a little plan in store… you know, to get to wear my jeans."

"They aren't something nice to look at." He was obviously annoyed that Rachel wasn't paying attention to what he was saying before. The minute she gets back in New York, he will burn those damn jeans.

"Oh shut up."

While the two were talking, and without Percy Jackson knowing (because if he did, Hell would explode at his scream of panic) the spirit of the Oracle of Delphi slowly appeared in her host's body, making eyes turn into a misty green and a mysterious glow surrounding her.

"Just—just be careful, okay?"

"Of course I will, Perseus Jackson," The Oracle's hoarse voice said, sounding like three people talking at the same time. The mortal's spirit inside body was temporarily gone, replaced by something more sinister, more ancient... "I always am."

* * *

Howard Williams was twiddling his thumbs, feeling rather nervous that day. He had no idea why, but something bad was going to happen.

And he was dead on.

He heard a knock. Of course, he said, "Come in!" and saw young Ms. Dare enter.

His academy certainly had an impact on her. Her uniform was perfectly neat and unstained with markers, colors, or rips. The shades of gray were flawless and bold. Her pale, freckled face had light, peachy makeup on. Extremely against the rules to apply makeup—he would have to inform the girl that. Her red hair was neatly tucked into a bun, looking smooth and silky. Little strains of fizzy red hair stuck out, clipped back around her forehead, like a crown. Quite a pretty young lady, when she knew how to dress right.

"Mr. Williams, I would like to talk." She said, not in a respectful manner. He sighed mentally, knowing that his academy will quickly change that.

"Yes, of course my dear. Go on." He said, absent mindedly, shuffling papers around.

"It is about my jeans…" She started, and Williams held up a hand.

"My dear, I am thrilled to hear that you are willing to let go of that preposterous piece of clothing. I will have it gone when you decide to turn it in." He gave a pleasant smile, to which Rachel frowned at.

"Uh, sure. Knock yourself out." She said, rolling her eyes. The man nodded back and returned to his papers.

After a long silence, Rachel brought up. "I am not here about destroying my jeans—but to be granted permission to _wear _them."

Mr. Williams shook his head, as if she was an amusing little girl who told her that the moon was made of cheese. "Impossible—we have strict rules about them. You are aware of that, Ms. Dare."

"I am," she whispered, in that dangerous tone again. "I am, indeed."

Just when he was about to lose it, his calm cracked by this girl's constant rude behavior, the room felt… colder. Green mist seemed to be sinking in from the doors and windows, surrounding violently around Rachel. The lights shut off, and the bulbs shattered with a heart stopping _POP! _The only light seemed to be coming from _the student._

Williams let out a scream of horror, and fell back from his chair. His mortal eyes could not recognize or even receive the slightest bit of information, but he did get a clue that something was wrong-- _really, really wrong. _Around the girl was a violent storm of green mist, clouds, and light. Her piercing eyes were fully green, as staring at him as if they were looking into his soul. Mist flowed out of her mouth.

With her flaming red hair flickering all about, finally loose from her bun. The tiny man screamed again, hiding under the protection of his desk. Lightning seemed to strike in his office, wind destroyed all of his work, and her screams and chanted ancient hymns—all just hoarse whispering to him.

"YOU SHALL LET THE ORACLE OF DELPHI LIVE IN WHATEVER WAY SHE WANTS TO… THE HOST IS GRANTED WITH ANY OF YOUR PERMISSION! IF NOT, YOU ARE COMMDEMED TO THE DEPTHS OF THE UNDERWORLD!"

Williams screamed again, trying hard to protect himself from the mental, demon girl. He held up a textbook in front of his face, in hopes of defending himself. What he did not know what that the real Rachel Elizabeth Dare, well, her _spirit _anyways, snickered slightly at the sight. He was shaking horribly, tear streaking his pudgy face. "YES, YES!" He begged, falling to his knees.

"You, tell NO ONE about this event—or by the power by the Lord Apollo, I will have to perish were you stand."

Another scream of horror, and Williams could not guess why no one could hear him shriek. All he did was watch the demon girl, daughter of the famous and rich Walter Dare, slowly turn around, with the mist slowly disappearing, and leave the room.

Sleep, tainted with nightmares of green mist and talking pair of marker-stained jeans, immediately hit Williams soon after she left.

---

No one notice that Rachel Elizabeth Dare looked any different when she left the principal's office that day. She had a smug look on her face, as if she had accomplished a mission. Which she had, in a way.

Lord Apollo would not be pleased how Rachel has been misusing the Oracle's power. He would just have to understand... or just live with it.

As Rachel passed through the halls the next day, she stood out quite a bit, in the crowd of girls wearing their gray uniforms, eying the Dare girl with incredulous looks. And with marker stains that she calls art and rips that she calls memories, she wore her jeans.

* * *

*_There is a Greek word that Rachel uses to describe her father. Let's just say that it's an insult. _

_My longest fic so far, around 4000 words-- sweet. The idea came out of my own ripped up pair of jeans. It sucks that they do not hold stories like Rachel's does. Rachel, in this one, is less calm than she is in the books. Sorry for that-- but I tried to show that she cares about those jeans, her identity, and would go crazy without them. It's like me without my precious teddy bear (no, there is no teddy bear). Read and review! I know before, some favorite it-- that's makes me feel so special. Please review as well, so my confidence will boost up. _


End file.
